A memory clicks on like a light. “I used that same word in the last game Grandpa and I played before I left for college.”

“Were you anxious?” Hayden asks.

“Yes. Grandpa thought I was afraid to leave home for the first time, but he was already getting more forgetful. He’d left the stove on all day, spaced on the electric bill, and twice he’d forgotten to turn off his car in the garage.”

Hayden plays off my tiles for 14 points then asks, “Did he want you to go?”

I can still see the tears in Grandpa’s dark blue eyes, the exact same shade as mine. “No one in my family had ever gotten a scholarship, let alone gone to college, so yeah, he really did.” He wanted me to escape.

“We have that in common,” Hayden says. “Struggling for something different.” He squeezes my hand. “I’m excited to get to know your grandfather.”

I haven’t introduced them yet. Grandpa has dementia and goes in and out of clarity. And I’m afraid of what he’ll say. As I rearrange my tiles, the rest of our conversation during that last Scrabble game returns . . .

“What about Dad?” I asked.

Grandpa scowled. “He’s not your responsibility.”

But I knew, even when I was a little kid, that Dad needed me around so he’d do better. Like the time he missed my sixth birthday dinner. He showed up two days later with a gift—a small gold locket with the inscription I love you Becky. Mom made fun of it, but I told him it was the thought that counted and asked if he’d stay with us this time . . .

Dad shook his head. “A full-time kid is too much responsibility for a guy like me.”

“I’ll be good. Promise.”

He crouched so we were eye-to-eye. “You can love somebody, Constance, but not want her all the time.”

“Constance? Your turn,” Hayden says.

I find a spot to play my M and score 24 points. Hayden misses an obvious three-way score and only makes 15 points. Then he sacrifices a Y to spell YOU in a move that opens the board. “You sure you’re okay with Lucy staying with us?”

He takes a swallow of his beer. “Of course.”

I use my Q for another high score. Hayden spells ME for only 8 points. He continues to miss obvious big scores for single digit points. For a guy who usually racks up a minimum of 30 points per turn, Hayden is having a very bad night.

Since everyone started before us, they’re done with their games and have to wait for us to finish to start the next one. The regulars filter over to watch as our timer counts down the final minutes. Hayden’s forehead is speckled with perspiration. It’s warm in here, but he doesn’t usually sweat. Hayden plays off my Y to spell MARRY. The bar goes totally silent. I look up. Hayden is watching me and so is everyone else. “What’s going on?” He points to one of the words he played early in the game, WILL then to another, YOU, then to the last one, MARRY, and finally to one of his lowest scores, ME.